


dunkirk drabbles

by countthestars



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: exactly what it says on the tin. variations on a theme; each chapter is its own separate drabble where alex suffers and someone comforts him. cool cool cool. cross-posted from tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alex/collins, sliiiiightly implied alex/tommy. mentions of near drowning, panic attacks/PTSD type stuff. this scene takes place during the train ride (assuming collins also boarded it). rated m. 
> 
> also thanks to the brilliant ferryboatpeak for convincing me to write alex/collins in the first place and making sure this wasn’t crap!!

Alex wakes with a jerk, elbow bumping painfully into something hard. It takes him too long to realize it’s the table. To remember he’s on a train on British soil.

Too long to catch his breath.

He scrubs a hand down his face. It comes back streaked black with oil.

“Fuck,” he mutters to no one in particular. Everyone else is still asleep. Tommy’s curled up in the seat across from him, his face tucked into the crook of his arm. Alex watches the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His own chest is tight, his breath still coming fast and shallow. His mind is splintered like a broken mirror. He can’t settle his thoughts, can’t focus on anything except his panicked wheezing. Black dots dance in front of his eyes. He thinks he might throw up.

The hand that suddenly closes around his arm startles him badly and he bites his tongue so hard his mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.

It’s the RAF pilot from the boat. Alex remembers his eyes looking kinder in the daylight.

“Easy, mate,” he says, voice low and soothing. Alex tries to shake his hand off, but the pilot’s grip just tightens. “You’re gonna wake up the whole train if you keep carrying on like this.”

“Fuck off,” Alex tells him, face burning.

The pilot lets go of his arm. He takes a step back, rocking a little with the movement of the train.

Alex latches onto the edge of the table, feels the ghost of bullet holes beneath his fingers, water rushing in his ears. He inhales in through his nose, out through clenched teeth.

The pilot takes another step away, boots a heavy thud against the floor. Alex doesn’t look up when he says, “Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m drowning.”

The footsteps stop. Alex’s knuckles are bleached white under the black oil stains. He wishes he had some soap to wash his hands. He wishes his feet were dry. He wishes he could unclog the stench of death from his nose. He wishes –

The pilot’s hand is back, on his shoulder this time. His pinky finger would be brushing the skin of Alex’s neck if it weren’t for his collared jacket. He fights a shiver, his muscles screaming with fatigue.

“You’re safe,” the pilot reminds Alex. Across the table, Tommy grunts in his sleep, burrowing further into himself. Alex stares at the pale curve of his ear, the only bit of skin he can see.

“Don’t need you to tell me that,” he says, biting off the words. “Need my fuckin’ brain to _stop_.”

The pilot drops suddenly into the seat next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex can see that his tie is still knotted neatly at his throat. He wants to rip it off, smear his oil-slicked hands on it until he looks as disheveled and wrung-out as Alex feels.

He wants to go back to sleep without the dark water creeping in, in, _in_.

“You need to get laid,” the pilot tells him. His voice is quiet. Almost a whisper. “That always gets me outta my head.”

Alex scoffs. “You see any birds around here?”

The pilot shrugs, jostling Alex’s shoulder. He makes a jerking motion with his hand. “There’s no queue for the loo, mate.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Alex repeats, but there’s no heat behind it this time. He glances over and the pilot is looking back at him, eyes dark and unreadable. The pilot lifts his hand, brushes Alex’s temple with a touch so soft Alex thinks maybe he imagined it.

When the pilot draws his hand back, his fingertips are smudged black. “You were one of the ones who got out before the fire,” he says.

Alex clenches his jaw and takes three tries to swallow. He can taste salt water on the back of his tongue. He rubs a hand over his face again, realizes it’s shaking.

The pilot realizes too, and grabs him by the wrist. His thumb sweeps slowly back and forth over Alex’s wild pulse.

“Breathe,” he says. He’s too close, forehead nearly bumping Alex’s. “ _Breathe_.”

Alex sucks in a ragged, awful breath and presses his face into the pilot’s shoulder to muffle the sound. His cheeks are hot, and so is the back of his neck when the pilot wraps cool fingers around it. The shame burns his throat, sinks like an oil-slicked stone to his gut when he shifts and his cheek brushes the pilot’s jaw. His stubble pricks Alex’s skin and Alex clenches his fingers in the pilot’s wool jacket.

“I –” he gasps. “I need –”

“Shh,” the pilot shushes him. “Shh.”

Alex grabs his tie and wrenches it. The pilot braces one hand against the table, the other squeezing the back of Alex’s neck. He looks down at the same time Alex lifts his face, and the first brush of their mouths is accidental.

The second one isn’t.

The pilot doesn’t shove him away, which all the encouragement Alex needs.

“When I said you should get laid, I didn’t mean with me,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop Alex when he goes for his belt. Alex’s fingers are uncooperative and he bites his lip hard to keep from swearing as he fumbles with the buckle.

They’re both breathing a little hard when Alex shoves his hand in the pilot’s trousers, feeling out the shape of him. The weight is heavy and familiar in his palm, but Alex doesn’t want to tug him off.

“ _Quiet_ ,” the pilot whispers sharply when Alex bangs his shoulder on the table trying to wriggle off the seat and between the pilot’s thighs.

Folding himself nearly in half to keep from banging his head on the table next, Alex huffs, “You want me to suck your cock or not?”

“Shit.” Reaching down, the pilot swipes his thumb over Alex’s lower lip. He tastes like salt water and oil. “Got the mouth for it, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Alex doesn’t say anything as he settles on his knees, shifting carefully under the table. Something bumps his shoulder blade and he freezes.

It’s Tommy’s boot. Alex releases a slow breath. Tommy doesn’t move, his snoring soft and steady, and Alex wraps a hand around the pilot’s cock, lips parting. The pilot lets out a hiss at the first touch of Alex’s mouth, then bites the meat of his palm to stifle himself.

When Alex closes his eyes this time, he doesn’t hear the rush of water. The pilot’s cock is heavy on his tongue, stretching his lips. It’s all he can taste. All he can smell. He breathes carefully through his nose, fingers digging the pilot’s hips to keep them from bucking so he doesn’t choke.

The toe of Tommy’s boot presses against his spine and Alex tries not to jostle it as he bobs his head.

“I’m gonna –” The pilot’s thighs tense and his fingers tighten in Alex’s hair, pulling hard enough to make his eyes water. He comes down the back of Alex’s throat, and Alex pulls off, swallowing desperately so he can breathe again.

He wipes off what he missed swallowing with the back of his wrist, slumping forward to rest his cheek against the pilot’s knee. His breathing’s too loud for the quiet train, but the panicked edge of it is gone, releasing the vice around his chest.

With slow, lethargic movements, the pilot tucks himself back into his trousers and does up his belt. He hesitates, then combs his fingers through Alex’s salt-encrusted hair just once. “I could… d'you want me to…?”

Alex shakes his head, eyes closed and limbs heavy. “Tired,” he mumbles. It’s harder to crawl back into the seat, and the pilot has to grab his elbow to help pull him up. Folding himself into the corner, Alex lets his head roll until his temple touches the window. It’s cold, but feels nice against his heated skin.

He manages to drag his eyes open when the pilot climbs out of the booth. He hesitates, licks his lips like he’s about to say something. Settles on giving Alex a curt nod before walking away, back to his own seat. Alex turns back towards the window and catches the glint of Tommy’s eye across the booth, watching him.

He blinks, and Tommy’s eyes are closed, his snoring soft and steady.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alex/tommy. warnings for ptsd-like symptoms. rated t.

They’re herded off the train like cattle, but it’s hard to mind when it’s to a symphony of cheers rather than bullets. Alex has two beers in hand and offers one to Tommy. Shrugs when Tommy shakes his head. He takes a long pull, throat working as he swallows, and Tommy looks away, eyes skipping over the crowd of civilians who’ve gathered at the station.

Alex’s shoulder bumps his, but when Tommy glances over, Alex’s got his neck craned to see around him. Despite being filthy with sweat and oil, he winks at a pretty bird standing at the edge of the crowd who can’t be older than sixteen.

He grins when she blushes. Tommy almost, _almost_ lets himself lose Alex to the sea of swarming soldiers.

But the grin falls off quick, and by the time they’re bedding down for the night in a makeshift camp, Alex’s face doesn’t look like it remembers how to smile. The threadbare blankets they’ve been given make for shit pallets, but there’s no German planes screaming overhead, so Tommy doesn’t complain.

He settles on his back, head propped up on his folded jacket, while Alex fusses with his boot laces, back hunched and head bowed.

It’s been hours since he’s spoken, and half the reason Tommy says anything at all is just to remind himself that he’s alive and he can. “You think Gibson made it here? I didn’t see him on the train.”

He thought Alex was tense before, but his back goes suddenly rigid. “No idea, mate,” he says after a moment.

Tommy studies the back of Alex’s neck, a dirty, pale inch of skin visible between his hair and collar. They had the chance to wash their faces, but not much else, and Tommy wants a bath so badly he could weep.

Seems like a silly thing to weep over. But Tommy thinks maybe he’s earned a moment of selfishness.

Alex eventually pulls his boots off, arranging them just so at the edge of his pallet, tucking the laces in and then pulling them out. Tommy watches with half-lidded eyes. What little sleep he managed to snatch on the train left him feeling even more exhausted, like his bones themselves had turned to lead, every movement heavy and labored.

But he can’t stop watching Alex fret.

“Mate,” he says at last. “Go to sleep.” There’s no telling when – or where – they’ll be shipped out to next. Tonight may be their only one without the looming worry of enemy fire. They can’t afford to waste it.

Alex drops his head onto his folded knees. He mumbles something Tommy can’t quite catch.

“What?” Tommy asks.

Slowly, slowly, Alex lifts his head, turning to look at Tommy over his shoulder. “I said,” he repeats, only a little muffled into his arm, “how the fuck do you live with it?”

Tommy doesn’t ask him to clarify. “Maybe you don’t,” he says. “Maybe next time we aren’t so lucky.”

Alex’s eyes look black in the dark. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“If you wanted sympathy, you’re lookin’ in the wrong place,” Tommy tells him.

Alex opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, then snaps his jaw shut, lips pinching together. He finally lays down, rolling onto his side with his back to Tommy.

Tommy counts his heartbeats like sheep, but he’s still not asleep when Alex’s shoulder starts to shake. He cries quietly, but Tommy can still hear the way he gasps for air.

After a moment’s hesitation, Tommy shuffles closer, until his front is nearly pressed to Alex’s back. He lifts his hand, settles it cautiously on Alex’s bicep.

Alex jolts like he’s been hit with an electrical current, going stiff and still under Tommy’s fingers.

“S'alright,” Tommy murmurs. “Got you.”

Letting out a ragged breath, Alex’s entire body shudders. Then he rolls over, pressing his face into Tommy’s throat, breathing hot and damp against Tommy’s skin, shaking like a leaf.

Tommy wraps his arm around Alex’s shoulders, his chin against Alex’s dirty hair. “I got you,” he repeats, rubbing his hand up and down Alex’s broad back. “You’re safe.”

Alex’s fingers grope against Tommy’s chest, clutching a handful of his shirt tightly. He tries to make himself as small as possible, tucking in his knees, burrowing into Tommy like there aren’t layers of thick, starchy fabric between them.

“You’re safe,” Tommy tells him again. “You’re safe, and you deserve to be safe.”

There’s a hitch in Alex’s breathing. Tommy shushes him, hand still tracing its path over Alex’s back, sneaking up to tease at his nape before dropping back down.

“We deserve to be safe,” Tommy whispers into Alex’s hair. It takes a long time for Alex’s breathing to even out, for his grip on Tommy’s shirt to loosen.

Tommy presses his lips to Alex’s temple, just for a moment. Then he counts their synchronized heartbeats until he falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alex/peter. mentions of PTSD and spoilers; no other warnings. rated t.

The crowd in Trafalgar Square is packed shoulder to shoulder. The cheers are deafening, a victorious roar of voices that drowns out everything else. There’s a banner strung from Nelson’s Column with letters half a meter high declaring _VICTORY OVER GERMANY,_ and flashbulb cameras go off every few seconds to capture this moment forever.

Peter pushes his way through the masses until it thins out and he can breathe again. Eyes on his feet, he makes his way down the pavement, away from the hub of the celebration. He bumps someone, his shoulder knocking hard enough to make him stumble, and murmurs a quick apology.

Long fingers wrap around his arm, stilling him. Peter looks down at the hand, then up to catch the eye of its owner.

The bloke’s face is pale and lean, dark fringe falling over his forehead. He stares at Peter like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Are you okay, mate?” Peter asks him cautiously. He’s wearing civvies, his shirt hanging off his wiry frame, but if Peter had any moneyleft to his name, he’d bet the bloke was a soldier. He has that hunted look about him, that wildness to his pale green eyes.

Slowly, the bloke licks his lips. “You – you’re the boy from the boat.”

Peter cocks his head. “Sorry?” It’s been years since he’s been on a boat. The lump in his throat when he thinks about it is still hard to swallow.

The bloke’s fingers squeeze, just for a moment, then he loosens his grip. He huffs out a sound that might’ve been a laugh before the war, before the Blitz, before England filled its cemeteries with the bodies of too many young men. “I can’t believe it,” the bloke says. “You’re wearing the same bloody jumper.”

Peter glances down at his red, threadbare sleeve. “It’s my favorite,” he offers cautiously. One of the few he was able to fit in his case when he left home for London.

When the bloke smiles, it takes years off his face. “Let me buy you a beer.”

-

His name is Alex, and Peter was right; he was part of the Highlander Division that served in France. He was also one of the 300,000 evacuated from Dunkirk what feels like a lifetime ago.

“In your boat,” Alex says, shoving a handful of chips in his mouth.

“There were hundreds of boats out there that day,” Peter says. He takes a tiny sip of beer, lets the taste sit on his tongue.

Swallowing his mouthful, Alex shrugs. “And I was on yours, mate. Thought I was a dead man, a fucking sitting duck out there, and then you show up in that red jumper and pulled me out of the water.”

Alex leans forward, his elbows on the table, and the light catches his gaunt cheekbones. He’s too thin, and the bruised skin under his eyes looks fragile. “You don’t forget something like that,” he tells Peter. “Not when they’ve got a face like yours.”

He grins cheekily, and Peter can suddenly see the ghost of the man he would’ve been if the war hadn’t damaged him. A real heartbreaker, his mum would’ve said. God rest her soul.

Outside the pub, someone whoops loudly as fireworks go off, cracking like gunfire. Alex startles so badly he sloshes half his pint over his hand. He looks down as rivulets of beer run down his knuckles, blinking rapidly.

Peter slides him a napkin and politely studies the scarred tabletop between them. “So where’s home, then?” he asks after a moment to cover up the heavy silence. “London?”

Alex visibly pulls himself together, dabbing at his beer-soaked hand. “Manchester,” he manages after a moment. “I, uh, haven’t been back since… since everything. S'funny, innit, that going home was the only thing I wanted during the war, but now I…” he trails off, taking a long pull of beer, his gaze a thousand miles away.

Peter gives him a moment to pick up the thread again, and when he doesn’t, he gently prods. “You have a place to stay in London?”

Lifting one shoulder, Alex shrugs. “Someone’ll put me up.”

Peter takes another sip of beer. The plate of chips is rapidly cooling between them, but neither one of them reaches for another one. Maybe they’re both thinking about the people they’ll never share this with again. It makes it hard to keep an appetite.

“You could stay at mine for the night,” Peter says when there’s only a swallow or two left of his pint. “It’s not much, but there’s tea and blankets.”

One corner of Alex’s mouth pulls up, his quota of smiles already capped for the day. “Thanks, mate.”

-

Alex is quiet as they pick their way through bustling London streets, walking shoulder to shoulder with Peter. The celebration hasn’t ebbed any even though dark has fallen, and every few minutes fireworks light the sky.

Alex flinches every single time.

It takes too long to reach Peter’s walk-up, the nondescript red bricks blending into the buildings on either side. Peter holds the door for him, apologizes that his flat is on the fourth floor.

“Not a big deal, mate.” Alex gamely follows him up the winding stairs, hand gripping the bannister the whole way. The noise from the street is muted inside, at least. Peter still fumbles with the key, taking a few tries to get the door unlocked. He gropes for the light switch while Alex stands in the doorway, surveying the space.

The shared main room is cramped and dingy, dishes stacked up in the sink, books littering the floor in messy piles that leave barely enough room to walk. Peter’s room is even smaller, barely enough room to fit both his bed and wardrobe.

“You could take the couch,” he says, leading them inside and turning the deadbolt behind them. “But I don’t know when my flatmate’ll be home.”

“The floor’s fine,” Alex tells him, hands shoved into his pockets. He perches on the edge of the cushion while Peter fills the kettle and lights the hob, watches with mild interest as Peter searches the cabinet for two clean mugs.

Peter’s got no sugar or milk to offer, and Alex doesn’t ask. He takes his steaming mug from Peter with a mumbled thanks, his hands steady as he drinks.

There’s no room to do the washing up when they finish, so Peter just adds their dirty mugs to the pile. He offers Alex the loo first, then busies himself with stripping the quilt from his bed to make up a pallet on the floor next to his bed.

Alex doesn’t say anything when he returns, just hovers in the doorway.

“It’s not much,” Peter says, apologetic, but Alex shakes his head.

“S'fine.”

When Peter squeezes around him for his own turn in the loo, he can see the damp bits of Alex’s hair where he must’ve splashed water washing his face. There’s stubble dotting his jawline and above his upper lip, but his cheeks are still smooth. He looks like he was forced to grow up too quick, and never quite caught up.

Peter doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror when he cleans his teeth. He changes quickly and efficiently into his pajamas, folding his red jumper with care. He’s not sure how many times he can mend it before it falls apart at the seams, irreparable.

Alex is already curled up on his side when Peter finishes, blanket pulled up to his bare shoulder. There’s a stack of neatly folded clothes sitting next to the wardrobe.

Turning off the light, Peter shuffles cautiously across the floor to avoid stepping on Alex, guided only by a thin sliver of moonlight that creeps around the edge of the curtain. The mattress creaks when he settles onto the bed, facing the water-stained ceiling.

-

It takes a long time for sleep to find him, and then it doesn’t last long. Alex wakes him up with his screaming, jolting Peter’s heart up into his throat.

Dangling one hand down off the bed, Peter finds Alex’s shoulder, shaking him gently. When that doesn’t work, he shakes him harder.

“Alex. Wake up. _Wake up_.”

The scream dies in Alex’s throat as he snaps his eyes open, breathing hard and panicked. He sits up with a jerk, blanket pooling around his waist. His skin is coated with sweat, and when his eyes latch onto Peter’s, they’re wide with terror.

“You’re okay. It’s safe. The war’s over,” Peter tells him, forcing his voice to stay even and calm. “It was just a dream, love.”

“I–” Alex rubs a hand over his face, lets out a shaky sigh. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Peter assures him. His own heartbeat hasn’t quite settled, but he’s determined not to let Alex realize that.

Eyes slipping shut, Alex draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face. His legs are bare, too, save for a pair of white pants clinging to his thighs. They’re as skinny as the rest of him.

Alex’s breathing is still a little labored, and beads of sweat wind their way down the knobs of his spine.

Peter doesn’t remember his face in particular, just one of the many grimy, oil-covered soldiers they fished from the sea that day, eyes wide as saucers and reeking of fear. He does remember the hurt animal sound George made when he hit his head, the way he writhed on the floor, and how Peter was paralyzed. Helpless.

He still thinks about the soldier that gently covered George’s face with a blanket. Wonders if he knew how much that one small act of kindness meant.

Pushing the blanket off his feet, Peter swings his legs out of bed. Alex doesn’t move as he slips from the room, finding a flannel in one of the kitchen draws and wetting it with cool water.

When Peter pads back into the room and drops to his knees in front of Alex, he lifts his head just enough peek his eyes out.

“You’re covered in sweat, love,” Peter murmurs. With slow, careful movements, he presses the flannel to the back of Alex’s neck. Alex stiffens for a moment, then slowly relaxes, dropping his head again.

Peter swipes the flannel back and forth across Alex’s neck, drags it down his back, stopping just short of the waistband of his pants. He hesitates for a moment, then pushes his fingers through Alex’s fringe. Alex lets him; lets Peter lift his face, run the flannel across his cheeks, over the fragile, bruised skin under his eyes, against his chapped lips.

His eyelids flutter, and he tips his chin up obediently when Peter presses his head back to expose the pale column of his throat. Peter can feel his adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and with gentle strokes, Peter wipes the perspiration from his neck, the hollow of his throat, his clavicles.

“Better?” he asks softly.

Alex licks his bottom lip. He drops one leg, bracing his hand on the floor. Holding Peter’s eye, he lifts his other hand until his fingers brush Peter’s cheek, thumb almost brushing the corner of his mouth.

Peter has to grab Alex’s shoulder to keep his balance as he leans in, and the first touch of their lips is gentle, almost tentative. Nudging his nose against Peter’s, Alex shifts the angle, licking more aggressively into his mouth, sucking on his lower lip.

Peter lets Alex set the pace, lets him dig his fingernails into the back of his neck, lets him press his forehead against Peter’s and pant against his mouth when he’s spent.

When he pushes to his feet, he grabs Alex by the forearm, pulling him up too. He nudges Alex towards the bed, and Alex only puts up a token protest before he climbs in, collapsing onto the thin mattress like a sack of potatoes. Scooping up the quilt, Peter drapes it over him before crawling under it too, his chest pressed to Alex’s back.

“Your bed’s too small,” Alex mumbles.

Peter curls his arm over Alex’s waist and laces their fingers together. “Shush.”

Alex just squeezes his hand in answer.


End file.
